


Before the Fish

by epicureanEmpath



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Headcanon Backstory, Pre-film
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 06:14:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epicureanEmpath/pseuds/epicureanEmpath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sean Cassidy, before the fish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before the Fish

**Author's Note:**

> This is my headcanon backstory for Sean Cassidy from X-Men First Class. The way that Caleb Landry Jones portrayed him struck me as curious after I read the Marvelverse Sean's wiki page, and found out that he was heir to what amounts to an Irish aristocratic position. I asked myself "If Sean is Irish nobility, how the heck did he end up in America?" One night I sat down to have him answer the question. This is what came out.
> 
> Dedicated to Sean fans everywhere. Enjoy!

The first time Sean gave a guy head, he did it in style, in the bathroom of the Merrion Hotel in Dublin. He was seventeen.

He can't remember, now, which function he and his parents were attending that year – yet another gala gathering for Ireland's social elite. Sean tried to beg off going, but his mother, Lady Cassidy – and wasn't _that_ a laugh – insisted.

“Perhaps you'll pick up some manners this time, hm?” she said, with the sort of glance that implied there would be dire consequences if he didn't.

Three hours later, scraped and teased into a suit, Sean managed to lose his parents long enough to snag a glass of punch. It wasn't even spiked. He quietly spat his mouthful back into the glass and snuck it onto a passing server's tray. Liven up the night a bit, why not?

He excused himself to the bathroom and drowned his bow tie in the john. The soap dispensers offered a rare bit of entertainment, foaming pink even in the men's bathroom. Sean looked at himself in the mirror. Same skinny ginger with freckles. It didn't matter how often his mother dressed him up as somebody _respectable._ It never matched the Sean he was underneath.

The door opened and a man came in. Like all the rest he wore a tuxedo, black tie and platinum cufflinks. His hair was silver at his temples. Sean eyed him in the mirror as the man adjusted his tie. All of a sudden he couldn't _stand_ the thought of going back out there.

“Are you as bored as I am right now?” he said out of the blue.

The man glanced sideways at him and the corner of his mouth curved.

“Got any better ideas?”

“A few.”

The man gave him a sharp look, but when Sean reached for his cummerbund the man didn't stop him.

He was already hard when Sean took him out, warm and very clean. Sean thought of banana sundaes and did the best he could. Eighteen miraculously undisturbed minutes later Sean loitered against the counter while the man zipped himself up again.

“Not bad,” he said as he smoothed his hair. Then he gave Sean a shrewd look. “You're the Cassidy kid, aren't you?”

The nervous thrill in Sean's chest vanished.

“Nope,” he said flatly and walked out.

~*~ 

Cassidy Keep wasn't anything like your typical castle. No mold, no mildew, no moat. Lady Cassidy kept every room exquisite, decorated in the latest taste, with the family colours prominent throughout. Luxurious decadence was the order of the day, as befitted the Cassidy's status as Peers of Ireland. Even the help's quarters were comfortable and lush.

Sean hated all of it.

When he could escape his tutor's hawkish eye, he would steal his father's second-best greatcoat and walk the six miles into town. He spent hours at the library, devouring any book that even remotely mentioned sex or friendship. His parents did not have friends. They had business associates, and they expected their son to carry on the family tradition. Sean was pretty sure they must have had sex – _he_ didn't just spring from mitosis, after all – but he couldn't imagine it. The sex in his favourite books was always messy, passionate, hilarious and fun. More than anything he wanted to be like that.

At the _caifé_ he drank coffee with eight scoops of sugar, scribbled song lyrics on napkins while rain misted the windows. He crouched in the alley behind the pub, rolled the napkins into joints and smoked them, letting his own words linger in his lungs. When it got dark he dragged himself back to meet his mother's tight-lipped glare with an equal stare of his own.

“Will you _stop_ looking so sullen?” she said to him once, a week after his eighteenth birthday. He had wanted to go roller-blading by the River Liffey until they found the best place for fish and chips. His parents, who come to think of it would have looked _hilarious_ on rollerblades, had thrown him the usual party instead. Finger food and those ridiculous little fairy cakes that were all in style. Sean bit his tongue and tried a different tack.

“Can I go out?”

“Why do you want to go out?”

“Just to be _out.”_

“Don't be silly, you have lessons.”

“I don't want them.”

“Mr. McCalloch is waiting in the study, Sean.”

“Are you even listening?”

“Now, Sean.” 

~*~

One day a very important man came to visit his father. Lady Cassidy had the Keep scoured, and her son along with it. Sean lingered at the top of the stairs as long as he could, until his mother's call carried the shrillness of a command. He slouched into the parlour, draped himself over the couch and tried not to fall asleep.

The evening dragged. Sean's father and the guest talked politics, the weather, and whether the Irish had a chance at the World Cup this year. Lady Cassidy, perched on the settee with her hands folded in her lap, smiled graciously at everything the guest said. Halfway through the evening she hissed at Sean to bring the man another brandy. At the same time, the guest excused himself to the washroom. Sean, his back to his parents while he poured a fresh snifter, heard them whisper together the moment their guest was out of earshot.

_It starts,_ he thought darkly, and brought the snifter to the coffee table.

But for some reason, that night he couldn't keep it to himself. He watched his father boast about the sixteenth century paintings, heard his mother gush for the umpteenth time over her vintage mahogany writing desk, which she never used, while the guest hmm'ed with polite approval. Sean lolled his head back against the couch and stared at the scalloped ceiling. They never gushed like that about _him._

Suddenly, he couldn't stand another second of it.

“Oh my _god,”_ he said, letting the words roll off his tongue. “Can we skip the mutual admiration society already?”

Dead silence. He lifted his head. All three of them were staring at him. His mother looked livid. _Finally,_ he thought. _A reaction._

“Or better yet, I'll just finish it off for you.” Sean pointed at his mother. “Your next line is 'If you like the desk, just wait until you see our bedroom!' Father – 'Ha ha, not as long as I'm around!' Everybody snickers. Curtain.” Sean pinned the spluttering old man with a look. “Do you want to talk about furniture or do you want to talk about something that _matters?”_

“Sean, excuse yourself.” His mother's lips were white.

“You're excused.”

“ _Sean Cassidy,_ excuse yourself this instant!”

Sean rolled his eyes.

“In case you hadn't noticed,” he said, “I live here too.”

Her slap echoed in the room. Sean stared. His father and the guest stared. Even Lady Cassidy looked surprised. Sean licked the corner of his mouth and nodded once.

“Well,” he said.

Then he ran.

The wind struck him hard as he pushed through the back door. It knocked him against the house; he shoved away from the ivy-covered brick as though it would poison him if he spent another second in contact. He wanted to scream and scream and scream, until everything that had been trapped inside him, stuffed down between plush cushions and stern looks, was gone.

So he did.

All the windows in the south wing shattered.

~*~ 

His parents were furious, of course. But they blamed the high wind for the broken windows. Sean nodded and apologized and retreated to his room as quickly as he dared, barely able to keep his grin from splitting his face.

At last, he had found something real.

~*~ 

For his nineteenth birthday they fly to Boston. Sean fucking _loves_ the Americans. They are loud and raunchy and haphazard, just like him, only they don't have to pretend otherwise. He masters the accent in two days, practicing in front of the mirror. It seems his new vocal chords have other uses too.

He practices other things. He can stroll casually past a store window, whistling, and suddenly hit _that_ note, that what-is-it note. Boom – shattered. Sean has never felt so _important._ This place feels different. Different like him.

One day he ditches his parents at the Boston Museum and takes a cab to the New England Aquarium. It's a Tuesday, so he gets in for half price. There aren't many people about; the place has a hush he doesn't like. It needs to be stirred up.

There's a cute girl standing in front of the tropical fish exhibit. He saunters up beside her, feeling bold.

Her rejection stings, but there are plenty of fish in that sea. Sean whistles against the glass and watches the fish spin away until the entire tank is clear. He may have just killed a bunch of them. Oops. _Natural selection, I guess._

All at once he becomes aware of two men, one on either side of him. For a moment he thinks he's in trouble. His pulse quickens and his body goes tense. But instead of a firm hand and stern looks, he's met with a pair of warm blue eyes and a gentle smile.

“That's quite the talent you have.”

Sean keeps his eyes on the glass, where he can see both of them. The taller man notices and smiles like a shark.

“What about it?”

“My name is Charles Xavier,” the first man says. “We've been waiting for you.”

It takes Sean a few seconds to realize that his lips never moved.

~*~

_There are others. There are others. There are others._

Sean can't believe it.

And yet he does. He's thrilled. Even without Erik's subtle demonstration in the coffee shop – a spoon that stirred his coffee all by itself – he would be thrilled. _There are others. I'm not the only one._ And he's going to meet them, if he can get his parents' permission.

Charles and Erik wait in the lobby while Sean goes upstairs. The door to Room 537 is open a crack. Sean frowns, is about to push it open when he hears his mother speaking in low, vitriolic tones on the other side.

“--cannot understand what has gotten into him! He thinks he can just run off and do what he likes. No respect, no responsibility. I won't have it! If he cannot learn to behave himself as befits his status, I'll wash my hands of him!”

Fifteen minutes later they leave the room, his mother muttering something about the police. Sean stays out of sight down the hall until they've descended in the lift. He goes into their room – never his, no matter where they are – and looks at the mess of their things. His mother's jewellery, scattered across the bathroom counters. His father's suits, pressed and hung neatly in the closet. And Sean's own bag, tucked down in a corner by the pull out bed. He picks it up, empties it of everything except the few American band t-shirts he's already bought. He leaves his cufflinks on his father's pillow, calmly removes all the cash from the secret slot in his mother's jewellery box, and walks out.

When he reaches the lobby again, Charles has a pensive look on his face. Sean meets Charles's eyes and juts his chin in the air.

“I'm ready.”

Charles does not question him. Sean maybe loves him already, a little bit, just for that.

He never looks back.


End file.
